


you love him, don't you?

by nodream_nopurpose



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, So much angst I'm so sorry, arzaylea is also mentioned, calum and ashton are only mentioned like once, sad!Michael, this is my first fic i'm gonna post here um yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodream_nopurpose/pseuds/nodream_nopurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe when you wake up, he won’t be at the door anymore. Maybe you won’t hurt anymore. Maybe you won’t talk about this. Maybe no one needs to know. Maybe you’re going to delete his number in your contacts and move to another country and change your name to Michelangelo and play your games till your fingers are hurt and numb, because you’d rather have that feeling than the hurt and numbness your heart and body and head are feeling right now.</p>
<p>Or the one where Michael loves Luke, Luke doesn’t know, and pictures of him and that girl called Azalea (Arzaylea) show up and Michael loves Luke but Luke doesn’t love Michael and Michael will never get over this, won’t he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you love him, don't you?

**Author's Note:**

> WASSUP ERRBODY I'M REally really new here. yeah. just a warning this fic contains nothing but angst so if you can't take it, read it. and if you want to cry, read it. and if you hate muke, yeah go read it. advanced sorry to anyone who cries, though. i wrote this just last night (and finished it wow this is incredible) because of this muke [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8JadrTjd5c) i just watched by Charlotte Clemmings (Y'ALL NEED TO VIEW HER VIDS LIKE NOW-SHAMELESS PLUGGING) and yeahhh, my muke heart.
> 
> enough about me though, i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing this! (what is there to enjoy about sad muke though)

You wake up. It’s one in the afternoon, and you know you should’ve woken up later but eh, you woke up at noon and that’s all that matters.

You do your daily routine of basically nothing. You just lay there in bed, staring at your ceiling and thinking about everything that just happened. You and your band’s first ever arena tour just finished like days ago and you’re releasing some of your singles from your second album, it’s your day-off as usual, so hey, why not play some games till your fingers are numb or hurt? That’s the only numbness and hurt you’d actually take, to be honest. From playing too much. No, you don’t want the kind of numbness or pain with love, disgusting, icky love. What is that Pokemon, anyway?

You rise up to wrestle with your sheets a bit and fall to the floor and stand up to fix your bed (being neat is super important for a sort of OC guy like you) before you walk downstairs with your furry gray cat slippers (so? Every punk rock guy has a fondness for something cute, okay?), giving out a yawn and running a hand through your blonde hair.

When you head downstairs, someone is snoring. The sound sort of makes you halt, because you weren’t expecting for anyone to be home. Calum is out with his family or something, Ashton is obviously with Bryana, and your bestest pal in the world Luke is…

Ohhhhh, Luke.

Of course it’s Luke. Just the snoring is obvious that it comes from a certain blonde guitarist, aka your band’s lead singer. And maybe your one and only real man crush/love for years.

Okay, so maybe that last statement wasn’t important, but it’s not like anyone can blame you. There’s nothing to not like about Luke. He’s clumsy, he’s dorky, he looks like an innocent penguin but he’s actually a mischievous bear (don’t ask yourself why you thought of that), and most of all he’s your best friend in the world and you’d always have his back and he’d always have yours.

You catch yourself already _grinning_ at the thought of your best friend/crush and you stop yourself before he wakes up and catches you grinning and he starts assuming you’re a creeper. You silently walk to where he is sprawled out on the couch with a quilt covering him. His shoes and socks are shucked carelessly on the floor, and his hair is in ruins and his mouth is open wide, where the loud snores are coming out, and his beard makes him look like a manly man and not the teenage boy with flower crowns you used to look fondly at two or three years ago, but that doesn’t change things because you fucking love this guy, don’t you? (And of _course_ you know what love is. Love is the most difficult Pokemon that has ever graced upon your eyes, ears, nose and body. Luke is that Pokemon, and you want to have that Pokemon. You want that Pokemon to be yours only.)

Luke’s long snores cuts for a second as he turns to the side, quilt falling a bit to reveal his red-and-black-covered back, and you just noticed that his black denim jacket is thrown somewhere near the carpet, and then it hits you. Where has this blonde companion of yours been?

You want to wait for him to wake up to ask, but curiosity gets the best of you. No, you don’t wake him up, you’re a good person and you know just how many people need sleep. Instead, you fish your phone out of your pajama pocket and open it, typing in the password (aka you and Luke’s birthdates) and opening Twitter. Twitter is such a trusty source of information that you use it to track the rest of your bandmate’s locations when they go somewhere without letting you know, just like this case.

You don’t even remember Luke saying he was going out last night, but you do remember waiting for him to sleep beside you in your bed and feeling empty because he had disappeared while you were playing your games. Luke never does that. He _always_ lets you know where he’s heading to, or his plans for the night. But then again, maybe he just forgot to tell you (but how could he forget?), so you shrug the feeling off (you don’t shrug it off completely, but you shrug a bit of it nonetheless.)

You’re surprised to see his name trending Worldwide. What kind of ruckus did he do and he’s trending again? (The last time a trend with his name on it appeared was during his 19th birthday, so what’s this?)

And then, out of nowhere, it’s as if your stomach drops, like an elevator and its power cut off. Your feet have this cold feel even through your slippers, and you can feel your hand clutching your phone already sweating cold, and _this is not a good sign_.

When this happens, it usually means something wrong is happening, or something’s going to happen to you or something, or basically there’s something _bad_ , and what about Luke trending is bad?

You don’t want to wake Luke up, so you give him one last look-over before heading upstairs as hastily yet quietly as possible. You feel like if you don’t head to your bed soon, you’re gonna collapse.

You’re sat on your bed. Your door is locked. There’s a glass of water at your nightstand, the aircon is on, but your insides seem to be _burning_. What the hell?

You’re so nervous. So, so, nervous, but for what? For this ‘Luke’ trend? What is it about? Does it concern you? How can it concern you when you didn’t go out last night and arrive home without telling your bandmate?

You breathe three times. Two more times for good measure. You close your eyes. You count slowly, one to ten, willing for your inexplicably fast heartbeat to slow down, your brain to stop thinking of things, your palms to stop sweating, and your insides to stop burning. It works.

You open your eyes, and then your thumb grazes over the Luke trend. Pressing it just so lightly, you were almost sure you didn’t do anything, but the page loads, and then there are pictures.

_What. Is. This._

There are pictures. Of your best friend. Of Luke. He’s wearing the same red and black plaid you saw him in downstairs, and the black denim jacket you saw on the floor. And he looks stressed. But he’s holding. He’s holding something.

A hand. You don’t know whose it is. For a second you hallucinated that it was yours. But then, pshhh. Why would it be you? _You didn’t go out last night_.

Your eyes seem transfixed on the hand. On Luke’s hand. On the sort of tan hand his hand is intertwined with. _Intertwined_. His fingers are locked perfectly _well_ with that person’s hand. A girl. Of _course_ it’s a girl. The hand is just a tad bit tanner than Luke’s. And your eyes are already welling up with tears at staring at the joined hands for too long, so you fucking blink the tears you refuse to fall away. You fucking blink even if you feel your eyelashes stick to your eyeballs and it stings a bit. You swallow the semi-lump in your throat. And you force your eyes to _look at the girl_. _Look at the fucking girl for christ’s sake._

And you do.

She looks distressed, too. Maybe it’s because of the paps. It’s not like she’d get mad at Luke, not with her letting him hold her hand like that. Why’d she get mad with Luke anyway? Luke’s probably a perfect guy for her already. Her hair is long, black, bits of it cling to her face, but she is _undeniably beautiful_.

Luke’s tastes are incredible. Picking beautiful girls like her. Black hair, red lips, skin tight jeans (you bet her ass looks great), boots. Ideal girl for Luke, right?

You want to be happy for him. You really do. Luke is your best friend and he deserves your support, but _why is it so hard to fucking support him?_

Why do you find it hard to smile at this picture right now? Why?

You slide for more photos. All showing the same angle, some zooming in on the hands, others of Luke and the girl—Arzaylea—heading inside a car. But it doesn’t change things _your heart is hurting your head is spinning your breath is going too fast your throat is constricting your eyes are welling up with tears they’re falling you can’t breathe your hands are shaking you’re shaking so fucking hard and yet you’re also **numb you’re numb yes you are but you’re fucking** hurt and no one can hear you and your **best friend** had just gone out with a girl last night and **he didn’t let you know he didn’t want to let you know why would he let you know you’re just NOTHING** to him right you’re nothing you’re nothing you’re just MICHAEL to him but_

_But LUKE is LUKE to you he is your BEST FRIEND YOUR ROCK YOUR SHOULDER TO LEAN ON YOUR PARTNER IN CRIME YOUR EX-ARCH NEMESIS BACK IN NINTH GRADE WHEN YOU WERE DUMB WITH FEELINGS HE’S YOUR HOME AND YOU’RE HIS HOME TOO AND YOU TEACH HIM GAMES AND WATCH MEAN GIRLS WITH HIM AND GET DRUNK WITH HIM AND SPEND TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN WITH HIM YOU AND HIM TEXT SILLY THINGS TO EACH OTHER YOU SWEAR TO EACH OTHER YOU LAZE AROUND TOGETHER YOU DO EVERYTHING TOGETHER BUT YOU KNOW THAT_

_That things won’t ever be the same after this one, right? Now that he has a girl. Arzaylea, what a pretty name. Pretty name, pretty girl. Of course Luke would go for someone like her. Why would he go for someone like **you**? You’re just _ Michael. And that’s all you’ll ever be.

And you’re crying. You’re sobbing. Your cellphone is placed on your nightstand, you don’t know when this happened but at least your phone is safe. You’re clutching your sheets too hard. You fixed it this morning but now it’s messed up again. Just like you. Just like your face. Just like your heart.

Your heart hurts. You let out a whimper. You don’t want Luke to hear you. You grab a pillow and you release different cracked sounds you’ve never made before, but they’re muffled by your pillow so that’s a good thing. Your tears are coming so fast and hard, it’s already making the top part of your pillow wet. You’re whimpering. You’re sobbing. You’re saying something. Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke Robert. Luke Robert Hemmings. That’s what you’re saying. It’s like a prayer, except that it doesn’t calm you, it makes your heart fucking ache some more and _god,_ haven’t you gotten into too much pain already? You’ve fallen and sprained your ankle and burnt your fucking face and now you’re hurting? Again?

“No, no, no.” You whimper. Even your voice is unrecognizable. You need to breathe. You need to calm down. Lord knows what would happen if you don’t stop. But you can’t stop, can you?

Because you LOVE your best friend. You LOVED Luke first. Luke deserves the love that comes from YOU, not anyone else. Not some girl he just met and is now holding hands with. He deserves _you you you_ except he doesn’t deserve someone _like YOU._

Why’d he go for someone like you, right? You’re…You look weird. You think you’re the ugliest in the band. Who’d want to go for the guitarist who keeps swearing and headbanging and jumping around and screaming incoherent things, right? Who deserves the ugly duck people have been calling, right? Who deserves to love you? Who deserves to look after you when you’re sick, to laugh with you even when you’re corny as hell, even when you swear, even if you’re so weird, even if you’re just so unsociable and even if you’ve gained weight? Who?

No one, that’s what.

(But it hits you like a ton of bricks that all these things you just thought of, _Luke_ was the one who did those. He was the one who took care of you when you were sick, who laughed with you and your corny as hell jokes, who swore with you, who got weird with you even if you were unsociable and he wasn’t, and he hugged you and you _swore_ he looked at you like you hung up the moon for him and you’ve seen him look you up and down before but you never thought of it till now but it’s too late, isn’t it?)

In the middle of your pathetic sobfest, you hear a knock at the door. “ _Michael?_ ” a low voice comes from outside and of course it’s Luke. Just by the knock you knew it was him. You know so much about him it’s so fucking creepy and maybe that’s why he doesn’t love you. Because you’re creepy.

You will yourself to stop but the tears keep coming and the sounds you make are getting louder and more pained and your throat is scratchy and you’re breathing too hard and you’re clutching your pillow and the knocks in your door are getting louder and more urgent and “ _Michael? Michael? Michael Clifford, are you okay? Mikey. Mikey, open the goddamn door.”_

And you want to say you’re fine and you’re okay because you _can’t_ let him in. Not this time. This is a serious case and it concerns him and your feelings and you don’t want to mess up with the little thing that’s left between you and him so why can’t you stop crying? Why?

“ _Michael Gordon Clifford, if you don’t open this door right now I will open this MYSELF. Don’t test me; I have the keys right now. Open the door Michael!”_ Luke keeps saying outside. You’re not sure if he’ll actually open the door, but you don’t think you have keys to your room. You know you don’t. But you’re not sure because the tears won’t stop, you’re still whimpering and moaning and crying, and you can hear the door jiggling and twisting and the creaky sound your door makes is fucking _unbearable_ and Luke’s _here but you’re crying so you start crying some more because he’s seen you_. You’re crying over him and he has no idea what to do and he’s panicking and screaming your name and rushing forward to you and enveloping you in his arms but you DON’T LEAN IN.

You CAN’T lean in. You can’t lean in his touch because he has a GIRLFRIEND and he never bothered to tell you and you’re MAD at him you want to punch him like you wanted to in year nine but you LOVE him and you’ll never forgive yourself if you hurt him and he’s saying shit like it’s okay and how you should talk to him and NO NO _NO._

“I love you, you fucking idiot.” You sob, your words being muffled by the pillow you refuse to let go and Luke’s warm chest and god he’s so warm and his hugs are the best but you’ll never have them after this because he has a girlfriend and all his undivided attention to you will go to her, right?

“Mikey, I love you too. You know that—” he tries to say, but you’re so fed up with everything and you’re _hurt_ so you do the unthinkable and _shove_ him away and leave him on your bed and you _stand up_ and you’re never letting go of this pillow are you?

And then you will yourself to pull your shit together. And you stop with the tears. Your face is wet and your hair is sticking to your forehead and you look like more shit but you don’t care just like how he doesn’t care about you, right? So you look at him and his deep blue beautiful eyes even from afar and say

“No, you arse!” You scream, voice cracking. He winces. You will yourself not to care and continue. “I love you like I’m supposed to love my future spouse! I love you like you invented pizza! I love you like we’re boyfriends and god I was SO DUMB to think we could be a thing but we’re not, right? You have that _girl_.” You can’t help from snarling. “And you LOVE her, not me. And I’d do so many things with you and for you but you’d rather be with her and do things for her, yeah?”

Breathe. Luke is not talking. His eyes are wide and he looks like he’s about to cry too but how would he if he doesn’t love you? So you breathe and say for the last time, “I fucking love you, Luke Hemmings. But you don’t love me, and you _need_ to get out of my room, please.”

But you want him to stay but you’re doing the right thing, so this is good. Good for you. Good for Luke.

But Luke won’t budge. He won’t move. And you’re just tired and you want to sleep forever now so you throw your wet pillow on your bed and it lands beside him and that seems to get him to stand up and say, “M-Michael. I…” but you don’t need an explanation.

“Out.” Is all you say. You’re suddenly really, really tired. You don’t want to deal with him now, or later, or tomorrow, or in a week or two, or a year or twenty, or forever. You don’t.

“No, Mikey, let me explain.”

“ _Get out, Luke_.” You grit your teeth. Can’t he just cooperate?

“ _Michael_ ,” he says in a persuasive tone. And you just. You just _snap_. Again.

“ _Get OUT, Luke Robert Hemmings!_ ” And you grab him by the shoulders and you use all your power and you PUSH him. Out. Of. Your. Room. And you shut the door.

And he’s protesting and he keeps saying your name and begging for an apology and wanting to explain but you’re crying again. You’re sinking to the floor in just your bare feet and there are wrecked out sobs coming out of you again and you’re sniffing and there’s snot that falls to the floor and you’re fucking disgusted you need a shower but _god_ you just don’t want to do anything right now to be honest.

Because now that you just cut your best friend off, maybe permanently, you’ve got nothing nice to do anymore. (He’s crying, too. He’s banging on your door but then it goes with soft knocking and now you hear and feel him slump and he’s whimpering and apologizing and saying he didn’t know and that he’s an idiot he’s a fucking idiot but you’re not going to pay attention to him now. You’re going to make yourself rise up and land on your bed and just go to sleep and never wake up because that sounds like a more appealing idea than talking to him.)

Ten minutes later, you’re in your bed. Sad songs are playing softly from your phone. Your eyes are dry from crying and they’re probably red and swollen and they ache and your nose is slightly runny and you’re staring at nothing, just spaced out because you can’t trust yourself to think.

Luke is still outside. You can feel it. He’s sniffing, saying he’s sorry, talk to me Michael, Mikey, Michael Gordon, talk to me you idiot, I’m sorry, but your eyelids are dropping just like how your heart dropped a while ago and now it’s gone but there are pieces of it in your chest and god everything hurts and yeah, you’re going to close your eyes and rest.

You hear something outside. It’s like Luke just said, “I fucking love you like you invented pizza too, you fucking piece of Panda Express-eating dick,” but you’re not too sure because maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. So you shut any source of sound available and you just will yourself to black out.

Maybe when you wake up, he won’t be at the door anymore. Maybe you won’t hurt anymore. Maybe you won’t talk about this. Maybe no one needs to know. Maybe you’re going to delete his number in your contacts and move to another country and change your name to Michelangelo and play your games till your fingers are hurt and numb, because you’d rather have that feeling than the hurt and numbness your heart and body and head are feeling.

(But it doesn’t change things you’ll forever love Luke, right? No matter what you do? And isn’t that so fucking pathetic of you?)

**Author's Note:**

> and yeahhhhh that's all. again i'm really really REALLY sorry for anyone who cried. you can all comment your thoughts or how much you hate me and i'll try to reply to everything or something. at least now there are some people who feel my pain. but let's all not lose hope guys muke is love muke is life.


End file.
